Sunday, September 28, 2008

I visited my uncle at the hospice center today. Advanced metastatic pancreatic cancer. That's the beast that has transformed this 55 year-old man from a healthy, doting grandparent to a shell wasting away before our eyes, all in a span of approximately 3 weeks. Three weeks. Three. weeks. My heart could not be heavier for him and his daughter, my cousin, as they try to wrap their minds around how this uninvited intruder has so speedily and stealthily robbed them of the man they knew. I think of my own dad and how I would feel if three weeks from now he was wasting away on a hospice bed, pain his constant companion.

How does one make sense of this? What can I say to make things better for either of them? What can I learn from this? I can hug my children tighter and speak more kindly to my husband, all the while promising that I will no longer take them for granted. I can swear that my perspective has changed and I'll never again waste precious days holding a grudge or wishing away the present in anticipation of an easier future . . . or simply not being fully present. I'll put the phone down and play Candyland one more time. I'll go a whole day without saying, "In a minute" when one of my kids calls for me to come and see something he's made. I'll read an entire book to my 2 year-old without turning 2 or 3 pages at once just because she's not old enough to notice. I'll bite my tongue. I'll tell my husband how proud I am of him. I'll . . .

But, will I really? For how long? Perspective is an amazing thing in its ability to profoundly shake and shape how we feel yet disappear in the blink of an eye when the daily grind of life forces itself back into the picture. Why can I not force it out? Why is my resolve so utterly useless?

Answers I do not have. But, for my uncle I will pray. Pray for healing. For peace. For relief from pain. For meaningful moments with his daughter and his grandchildren, moments they can remember forever. For my cousin I will pray. Pray for comfort. For strength. For unmistakable glimpses of God's profound love for her. For a miracle. For myself I pray that the Holy Spirit will find and destroy every self-serving, vain, lazy, and inconsiderate cell that robs me daily of precious moments with people I love. Change my heart, oh God.

Josh begain learning to read notes on a staff at his piano lesson this week. A little while ago he said that he wanted to write music to go in a book for other people to play. Twenty minutes later, this is what he brought me (after asking me to help him spell saxophone - hope it's right) and said he wanted me to play it on the piano and David to play it on the trumpet.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Before my surgery, Dr. B said my heart was doing an 8 minute mile while I was at rest. How is it that with a properly functioning circulatory system, I couldn't run an 8 minute mile now if my life depended on it? I run (and I use the term loosely) closer to an 8 minute half-mile! Is it just me or does this seem horribly, horribly wrong. (Which were probably the exact words going through the minds of every car that passed me tonight . . . horribly, horribly wrong.)

Friday, September 26, 2008

If you had asked me yesterday what award my kids would most likely nominate me for, I would have said without hesitation that it would be Meanest Mom of the Year or Most Likely to Scare the Crap out of Her Kids With a Mere Facial Expression . . . something along those lines. I'm pretty sure if you asked them again today, though, I would HAVE to at least be in the running for coolest mom.

I accidentally ran over this little fellow on our street this morning:

Seeing in my rear view mirror that he had not slithered away, I decided to check on him. He was almost dead, but not, um, splattered. (Sorry for the visual; can't think of a better word) Since he was still quite whole, I knew my kids would love to see and handle him, so I dumped the contents out of our lunchbox and bagged him for the kids. They loved seeing him and touching him (actually, it could have been a her, who knows), so it made for a fun little science lesson. No, we won't be eating out of that lunchbox again, mom. Don't worry.

Kudos to all who get the title reference. You can no longer be my friend if you do not. Sorry, them's the breaks.

So, last night I was putting the alarm clock/radio (which I have had since I was twelve, by the way, no joke) back on the nightstand after the painter so lovingly rearranged every item in my bedroom. (Seriously, did the computer chair HAVE to go right on top my fresh clean pillow?!) I got the nightstand out of the bathtub and squeezed it in sideways next to the bed so that we would not only wake on time in the morning, but also be aware of what time it was during the night when Lauren began her nightly shrieks of, "I need you! My room smells!" (The first night after her room was painted, she woke several times, and after the 3rd I thought maybe it was because of the paint smell. I made the mistake of saying this aloud, so now she thinks saying her room smells is a guaranteed ticket to mommy's bed. It was actually my room that got painted yesterday, but for some reason the logic of my room smelling stronger than her room was escaping her at 3:12 this morning.)

Now, back to my point. I knew it was 3:12 thanks to the alarm clock which this post is supposed to be about. If someone would just stop sending my brain off on rabbit trails. (Where did that phrase come from anyway? Are rabbits notorious for wandering aimlessly through the woods in directions they did not intend, all the while leaving trails behind them? Most rabbits I've seen aren't even big enough to leave a trail. Where are these mammoth sized bunnies that are giving rabbits everwhere such a bad rap?) Sorry, I digress again.

I set the clock and did a volume check to make sure it was loud enough to wake us in the morning. Getting only static, I adjusted the dial a bit and was stunned to hear an old Mylon and Broken Heart song ("Trains up in the Sky") on the radio. For those of you who didn't grow up listening to Christian rock (or maybe contemporary . . . who the heck knows the difference), Mylon was big back in the 80's. On one of my recent trips down memory lane, I uploaded a bunch of old songs onto my ipod, and this was one of them. Having not heard this song on the radio since about 1988 or so, I was quite surprised. Even more so because the dial was on the high 107's, and the only Christian stations I know of in town are 93 and 103. So, what was this song doing on 107 something? Hmm. A mystery.

It was near the end of the song, so I kept listening a bit to see what station I was listening to. Didn't say. Just switched to ANOTHER 1980's Christian rock song by the band Stryper. (Yes, I used to listen to Stryper, what of it?) Coincidentally, it was another song that I had put on my ipod a few weeks ago. I wondered aloud if I had gotten the radio connected to the computer or to my ipod somehow. Nope, connected to nothing except the electrical outlet. What could explain this? Maybe the painter, like vaccuum cleaner salesmen, is really a recruiter for some alien cult (you must get that reference in order to be my friend, too) and had done some kind of voodoo to my clock radio. I could think of no other logical explanation. Was I insane, or had my alarm clock somehow after 21 years of faithful service, just magically begun to pick up on what music I feel like listening to? David said to leave it on, maybe I would get a message from God soon. (He was clearly leaning toward the "insane" option.)

This morning: vindication. I am not insane. I awoke to the sounds of "Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. golden Sun, please shine down on me" being sung by the Little People. Now, I know there is something going on because who would would be weird enough to have that children's song and some obscure 80's Christian songs on the same radio station? No one but me, I assure you. Finally, I realized what was happening. The station was apparently 107.9 (hard to tell for sure; it's a dial), which is the station my ipod monster is set to in my van. (A monster is the nifty little device that lets me play my ipod through my van radio.) Yes, call me Sherlock, it only took me 8 1/2 hrs to figure this one out. I had no idea it would work on any radio in the vicinity. This is awesome! I guess. I don't actually listen to the radio in the house except for the three seconds before I beat the crap out of my clock each morning. (I know, I know, I should be kinder to it after all these years. I tell you, it gives David little hope that I grow kinder over the years.)

So, no I am not insane. I'm so sane I blew my mind. Just call me Kramer.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

It's the little things that make life with offspring of both genders fun. At the moment, Lauren has Darth Vader riding on My Little Pony across the coffee table. Lauren says he's on his way to the store. Think a Darth Vader/My Little Pony combo pack could make it on Donnie Deutsch's The Big Idea?

Sunday, September 21, 2008

This afternoon I told Joshua to clean up the transformers on his bed because he wasn't playing with them anymore. Always acutely aware of any potential unfairness, he helpfully added, "Ethan, clean up your transformers." Ethan: I don't have to because I'm still playing with them.Josh: Oh, do you want to play with mine, too?Ethan: Yeah.Josh: You want all of them?Ethan: Yeah.Joshua: Mom, I'm not cleaning them up because Ethan's playing with them. May I go outside?

Saturday, September 20, 2008

The year was 2000. The setting was a snow-covered mountain in northern Pennsylvania; the prop, a diamond ring.

David chose to ask me to marry him on this mountain for a very specific reason: he felt I deserved to see his hometown, the town to which we would move when we finished law school the next year, before I agreed to marry him. So, he took me there over a weekend in January when the temperature was a balmy 4 degrees so that I could see the town in all its glory. After meeting several relatives, traveling every street in town (seriously - there are 6 of them), and spending the day sledding on a beautiful pristine hillside, he popped the question. I don't know if it was the effect of the bitter cold on my brain cells, the blinding glare of the diamond ring/snow, or if it was just a momentary delusion in which I saw myself as a brave, adventurous person, but for whatever reason, I said, "Yes, I can live here!"

Now lest you misunderstand me, let me be clear: I agreed to marry David because I love him - a decision I have not regretted in at least the past 48 hours. (I jest, I jest!) It was not my answer to the "Will you marry me?" part that would come to haunt me; it was the "Can you live here?" part.

I should give you a little background about myself at this point. I tried to go away on a summer-long mission trip to Hungary when I was 16. I lasted 5 days. I started college at Auburn but transferred home after a semester. (In reality, my intent was to transfer to a Christian school, but it never happened. I finished my degree at CSU, which does not stand for Colorado State.) I finally succeeded at the summer missions thing the summer after I graduated from college, during which I lived for an entire summer in a warehouse/church in inner-city Chicago. I lasted the whole summer and loved it. However, the complete story is that I flew home for a weekend after one week so that I could walk in my college graduation, returned home 3 weeks after that because I needed semi-emergency surgery, and traveled to California to be my cousin's maid of honor during a few weeks after that. So, assuming there are about 10 weeks in the summer, I still managed to spend a total of almost 2 weeks with my family during that time. A few days before I was to leave for law school in Virginia Beach, my family and some friends got together to pray for me and bless me before I left. My big brother seemed skeptical that I would really go. I said, "Ben, I'm going. I'm packed! I have an apartment!" He said, "Yeah, but you haven't left yet." That statement held more meaning than he intended.

I did, indeed, leave that week and spent three fabulous years living in Virginia Beach. I made the closest friends of my entire life (all you have to do is call my name, and I'll be there . . . on the next train . . .) and never for a minute wished I wasn't there.

It was halfway through our second year that David proposed. I was still doing great then. We got married the summer before our final year of law school. The first few months, still great. And, then . . . downhill fast. I was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming, paralyzing fear of moving to Pennsylvania. I sunk into a depression, cried at the mere thought, much less mention, of moving there and being away from my family for even longer than I had already been. I just could not do it, and I was falling apart. Those of you who are married can imagine what a joyful first year of marriage this made for David and me. Let's just say we have great empathy for couples who struggle.

So, I was a wee bit apprehensive about moving to PA after graduation. You know, in the sense that the Sahara desert is a wee bit warm. As I said, the mere thought or mention of it would reduce me to tears, and since it was our final year of law school, there was of course, a LOT of talk about it. We had to apply to take the bar exam in whatever state we would be moving to, so I spent our last semester getting together the materials needed to apply to the PA state bar (which consists of your birth certificate, your driving record, your criminal record, your blood samples, your firstborn, etc.). I had talked David into agreeing to take the GA bar, too, but we could not take them at the same time because the days overlapped. (Most bar exams are 2-day affairs, given at approximately the same time.) The exams are offered only twice a year - in July and February - so we agreed we would take the PA bar in July and the GA bar in Feb.

Here's where things got a little better (ie, I got my way): because studying for the bar exam is theoretically full-time work and we had to move out of our university apartment when we graduated in May, we had no place to live. So, my parents agreed that we could live with them for the summer while we studied for the bar exam. We flew to PA in July to take the exam . . . but exam results are not issued until October. So, now what do to? Getting a job as a lawyer is tough when you don't have a law license yet, so that left us from late July to late October with little employment opportunities. We weren't in PA to look for jobs there, and we hadn't even taken the GA bar exam yet, so looking for legal jobs here was pretty impossible, too. By August we realized we needed to do something to put bread on the table and move out of my parents' house. Seeing as how David had gotten an oh-so-marketable political science degree, the job-hunting was pretty much left to me since I had a teaching degree and certificate and a yaer of teaching experience pre-law school to boot. So, I got a job teaching 7th grade grammar. (Grammar I love; 7th graders, not so much. No offense, Mal and Grant!)

Boy this story is getting long, huh? So, the teaching job committed us to GA for the year. By then end of that year, we had obtained law licenses in both PA and GA, David had gotten a job with a firm here, and I was pregnant! During this time, David was still knocking on doors (figuratively) in PA from time to time, but nothing was opening. So, he ended up in the DA's office, I had a baby and then went to work part-time for a law firm. Over the next three years, we would have three children, I would become a stay-at-home mom, and David would leave the DA's office to work for the firm he is still with today. (Our time there, sadly, overlapped by only a couple of months before I left to stay at home.)

During all this time, up until Fall of 2006, I would hear him on the phone with his dad in the other room talking about plans for living and working in PA, and I would fall apart all over again. (David's dad graduated from law school with us. He and David went to law school together with the intent to open their own firm afterward; call me the monkey-wrench.) I spent the first six years of our marriage living, quite literally, in abject fear of moving to PA. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to live near my family, have my mom to help with my kids, be here to watch my nieces and nephew grow up, have all the comforts and familiarites of my hometown at my fingertips, and last but not least, live within 1/2 hr of actual stores and restaurants! Any talk of PA left me shaken, afraid, and quite honestly bitter and angry. It made much more sense to me that we stay here since I have siblings and David does not. His parents needed to just move to GA to be close to their grandchildren since ours are the only ones they have. Makes sense, doesn't it? Meanwhile, David and his parents kept playing the "God card" - they felt like God wanted them to live there and that we were "supposed to" move there at some point. Thanks a lot - how can you argue with the God card, right?

So, after six years of marriage here I was resenting David for wanting to put me through the pain of leaving my family, resenting his parents for expecting us to do that, and pretty much creating a mile-wide chasm between myself and my husband. It would have made sense during this time for me to have prayed for God to change my heart about the whole thing . . . to help me desire the things my husband desired, to give me peace about following my husband and supporting him in his goals and plans. Plans, he wouldn't hesitate to remind me, that he fully disclosed when he took me to that mountain and proposed all those years before. He had wanted to make sure I would be able to live in that tiny frozen speck in the mountains, and I had said I could. How frustrating this must have been for him, I cannot imagine.

Despite my fear and resentment, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I suggested in the Fall of 06 that we take a family trip to David's hometown. We had not been there since we got engaged, and none of his family had seen any of our children. (Except his parents, but they have been living in Harrisburg - about 4 hrs from the hometown - since after law school, so that was where we always visited.) We drove to Harrisburg first and spent a couple of days at his parents' house. Then we headed up into the mountains.

I was prepared for battle. I fully expected David to hail the virtues of the town the entire time we were there and to try to convince me that it was where we should live. I was ready with my defense. My guard was up, and I would not let him penetrate it. Bring it on, honey, I know this is what you're going to do.

Nope. Silence. We were there for three days, and in a display of probably the wisest self-restraint anyone has ever shown, David said not one word about moving there. Not one word. I was stunned.

But, Someone else spoke to me instead. David's arguments I could resist. His mom and dad's arguments I could thwart. But, there is One whose words cannot be resisted no matter how hard we try. Over the course of the three days we were there, God and God alone, totally and miraculously changed my heart. I saw the town and his family with new eyes. I would be okay. God would go with me, and I would be fine. He gave me a peace that is truly beyond understanding.

God was steadily working in my heart the entire time we were there, but I didn't say anything to David until our final day. On the morning we were packing to leave, we were standing outside (in the bitter October cold and snow!), and I said to him, "If you really feel like this is where we need to be, I'm okay with that." You could have knocked him over with a feather! What??!! After six years of crying and hyperventilating when he even mentioned PA, suddenly I was fine with it? We were both utterly amazed. I knew that this peace had come from God and that He had given it to me mercifully. I had not asked for it. I had only ever prayed that God would change David's heart and that we would not have to go. Never had I asked for my heart to be changed. But, doesn't God always give us what we need even if we're too foolish to ask for it or to recognize it?

That was two years ago next month. Yet, here we are in GA. Over the course of the past year I would wonder why God didn't open doors for us to move right after He gave me peace about it, but we would discover the answer to that. If we had moved to his tiny hometown prior to this year, I probably would have died because my life-threatening health condition would almost certainly not have been found in time. Turns out God had us here for a reason, and now that I've had surgery and my health is good, doors are opening and signs are appearing at every turn that let us know the time to go is soon. I could not ask for a sweeter blessing from God than this peace and like-mindedness with my husband. How terrible putting up the for-sale sign would have been if I were still in the state I was in two years ago. How miserable it is to live life full of fear and resentment, and how great and gracious and merciful God is to give us what we need despite our protestations.

So, I was right all along that we ought to be in Georgia, wasn't I? In the end, though, does that really make me right? No. I read a verse during that final semester of law school which convicted me: I Peter 3:5-6, which says, "For in this way in former times the holy women also, who hoped in God, used to adorn themselves, being submissive to their own husbands; just as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord, and you have become her children if you do what is right without being frightened by any fear." (emphasis mine) That pierced my heart, and I knew then that the right thing to do was to support my husband and to ask God to help us want the same things and to give me courage and peace. But, I didn't. I stubbornly resisted. God did not need me to be bitter and resentful for us to live where He wanted us. He did not need me to stubbornly refuse to submit to my husband and to do everything I could to manipulate circumstances to keep us here. He could have kept us in Georgia without any help from me. I was wrong even if the place was right. Thank God for his mercies that are new every morning.

I've been feeling compelled to write out my story lately . . . not because I think anyone wants to read it, but more because I will benefit from remembering and writing it. This will be a 2-part story describing two distinct ways the Lord has been working in my heart this year. I'm having trouble deciding whether to tell the "contentment no matter where He takes me" tale or the "thankful He saved my life" tale first. Hmm . . . I guess being alive is always a good place to start. (By the way, this is a loooooong story, so if you already know my medical saga, skip the first 13 or 14 paragraphs (yes, it's THAT long).)

For those who may not know my story, I have had a chronic kidney condition all my life. It's most likely benign, but I have seen a nephrologist for the past 15 years to monitor it, and in the interest of being on the safe side, my first nephrologist 15 years ago decided it would be prudent to biopsy one of my kidneys. This took place in 1994 when I was 19 years old. Unfortunately the biopsy was inconclusive - it revealed abnormalities but was not conclusive as to what the underlying defect was.

So, fast-forward about 10 years. I was 29 and barely pregnant with our third child (so barely that I wasn't even aware of her yet) when I developed high blood pressure for the first time. The drs pretty much treated it as pregnancy-induced hypertension even though they thought it highly unlikely that it would have developed so early in the pregnancy if that's really what it was. I began taking medicine to control my bp, and in the end Lauren was induced 3 weeks early because the medication was beginning to lose its efficacy.

Now comes the first time in this tale when I began to truly fear for my life. When Lauren was 3 days old, I developed the worst headache known to mankind. I had never experienced anything like it. It began on a Monday afternoon, and by the next morning I was in tears. We had to take Lauren to the pediatrician to get her billiruben checked that morning (yes, ALL of my kids decided to be jaundiced), and several nurses asked if I was okay. I struggled through that visit, which ended around 9:30 am. I had made an appt to see my midwife at noon but dropped the kids off at my mom's and headed on over there hoping she could see me sooner. I waited for about an hour in tears when finally I went to ask the nurse how much longer it would be. Taking one look at my face, she said, "Just one more minute." Within a minute I was having my bp taken, and at this point it had risen only to about 170/90. (It would continue to rise until it finally peaked at 210/115.) At that point, my midwife and the consulting OB sent me straight to the hospital with my "Do not pass go. Do not collect $200" card. I spent 4 days in the hospital with post-partum pre-eclampsia (which I did not know could occur), 2 of those days in critical care as they worked to get my bp under control. I finally got relief from the headache on about the middle of the second day.

I was sent home on day 4 (finally being able to see my 9 day old baby I hadn't seen since she was 5 days old) but my bp continued to be a roller coaster. Finally after a few weeks, the OB said this was clearly not pregnancy-related anymore and I needed to see my pcp because he would know of a wider range of bp medications to try. Of course, about this time our insurance changed, and our pcp was no longer covered, so I had to go see a new dr. He was listening to my heart and said, "Do you know you have a heart murmur?" Um, no. He said, "It's actually quite loud. Are you sure no one's ever mentioned it." Of course, I'm very sure, so he does a chest x-ray. Here comes my next "Do not pass go" card. My heart was enlarged, so he sent me straight to the cardiologist at 5:30 that afternoon.

The cardiologist was concerned that I may have had cardiomyopathy; I did not. He said that my heart was definitely enlarged and a couple of my valves (mitral and aortic) didn't close all the way, but it was probably the result of how high my bp had gotten during my pre-eclampsia episode. He wanted to keep an eye on things and thought it would probably resolve itself in time. It did not.

All this time, I'd been seeing my nephrologist to keep an eye on my kidneys. Sometime in mid-2006 he decided to do a kidney ultrasound since I had not had one in many years. That ultrasound revealed some enlarged blood vessels in my left kidney. He thought it was probably just some scarring from the biopsy I had had years before, but he ordered an MRI to get a closer look. So, I had an MRI in the fall of 2006, which confirmed enlarged blood vessels in that kidney. My dr decided not to do anything at that point (a decision he would later question) but to keep an eye on things. So, in December of 2007 he ordered another MRI. (Meanwhile, my bp had continued to require more and more medication in order to keep it down.) This time the MRI report was that the vessels of my left kidney were even larger than they had been the year before. This concerned him, but he still said it could be anything from a minor aneurysm to scar tissue to . . .

So, in Jan. 2008 I had an arteriogram of my kidney. (That's not a fun procedure, but it is pretty cool. The radiologist pretty much steers a catheter through your arteries much like a kid playing a video game, with the controls entirely on the outside of your body as he watches the inside on a monitor. I'm amazed at how they can make it twist and turn through exactly the vessels they want to get it to your heart, brain, kidney, etc.) As soon as the radiologist injected the dye, he said, "Oh wow, you have a massive AVM." (a term I would later learn means arterior-venous malformation) He had told me prior to the procedure that he would inform me right away of what he saw but that he would NOT make any guesses about what my dr may want to do about it. He stressed this point quite emphatically before he began the procedure, so I was a bit taken aback when his next words (after, "Call and see if Dr. W is in the hospital at the moment - he's going to want to see this right away.") were, "You're definitely going to need surgery to fix this. Yeah, they're gonna have to fix this." So much for not taking any guesses!

So, at this point (while I'm lying flat and still in the hospital bed for four hours, as is required after an artiogram), the radiologist told me to call my nephrologist and ask if he really wants to see me or if I should just go ahead and let them make an appt with the cardio-vascular surgeon. I didn't have to call. The next morning my phone rang, and it was Dr. W's office saying, "We're making an appt with the cardio-vascular surgeon." Still, I didn't have any idea what to expect. As anyone on the planet would do, I began to research AVM's on the internet. It seemed that the most common treatment was an arteriographic procedure where they insert some type of stent through your leg to repair the problem. Of course, I also read that sometimes they have to take out your kidney, but I had absolutely no idea which of the things I was reading applied to me. So, I did what any normal person would do . . . didn't worry about it and went on our church's women's retreat.

We were gone from Fri evening until Sunday around noon. It was a great retreat and a time of sharing and connecting with friends that I will treasure forever. I pulled into my parents' driveway around 1:00 Sunday afternoon (David had, of course, gone to my parents' house with the kids) and found David standing in the driveway waiting for me with a piece of paper in his hand. He barely said hello before saying that Dr. W had called and left his home number for me to call him when I got back to town. Ding-ding-ding!! Alarm bells going off in my head . . . he called on a Sunday??? And he left his home number??? Those are never good signs.

So, I called him right away, and he said that he had been in his office looking over my pictures (from the arteriogram) and realized that a whole lot of doctors were talking about Rebecca R, but he wasn't sure if anyone had actually talked to Rebecca R. Umm, no, actually. He said he just wanted to prepare me for the fact that I as going to be having a "huge operation" and that there was a very good chance I would lose my left kidney. Huh?? At this point, I still wasn't even 100% sure what an AVM was, much less how it was threatening my life. He said that he had moved my appt with Dr. B (the surgeon) up to the next afternoon and wanted this taken care of asap.

So, the next afternoon I went to Dr. B's (aka, my life-saver and miracle-performer) office and finally began to understand exactly what was going on with me. I finally saw the previous two years of my life beginning to make sense. Have you ever watched one of those artists on tv who starts a painting with seemingly random strokes on a huge canvass? I saw one once where the artist spun this huge square canvass around as he made stroke after seemeingly meaningless stroke, until all at once - as it was practically finished - I saw the face of Albert Einstein. It wasn't until almost the final stroke of the brush and spin of the canvass that I saw any face at all, and once I did, it was unmistakeable, and I didn't know how it had taken me so long to see it. That's what it was like when Dr. B explained my AVM. So, here it is:

When I had that kidney biopsy back in '94, the biopsy needle had nicked a hole in an artery and a vein. Blood had begun to leak, so instead of going from the artery to the vein via a capillary bed as it's supposed to, the blood was shunting straight from the artery into the vein. Well, as you proably know, the blood in an artery is high pressure, in a vein low pressure. So, over time, as this blood was forced into the vein at high pressure, it began to pool there and create what's called a fistula - a bulging area of blood vessel where blood accumulates. Well, after almost 14 years, that fistula had grown so much that there was more than twice as much blood in it as there was in the entire rest of my body. The result: my heart was having to work waaaaay overtime to supply enough blood to my body, resulting in an enlarged heart, high blood pressure, and chronic exhaustion (which I had chalked up to having 3 kids aged 3 and under!).

So, Dr. B's plan of action, he said, was to go in through my abdomen (because the kidney's vascular system lies in the front), find the exact spot of the leak, and fix it. Sounds pretty simple, right? Well, he said that the fistula contained so much blood that when reading the arteriogram pictures, it was impossible to tell exactly where the hole was. It would fill with blood with every beat of my heart, and by the time in emptied during the off-beat, it was already full again . . . so, he basically said he would have to go in fairly blind, use an ultrasound once he got inside of me, and try to find the leak that way and hopefully be able to save my kidney . . . and my life.

Now's probably a good time to mention my grandmother. My dad's mom (who died in her 60's while I was in college) had high blood pressure and kidney problems most of her adult life. She had the first of several heart attacks in her 30's and eventually died of a massive heart attack on the operating table for an unrelated, relatively minor, sugery. (Thyroid, I think.) So, all this time, I've pretty much figured that my health issues are just genetic, and whatever happened to her would probably happen to me, too.

Now, if you know me at all, you know I'm not an easily freaked-out person. As my pastor, Bill, would say, my boat doesn't tip real easily. Even right up until this point, I've been my usual even-keeled self - not panicked, not worried, not anxious . . . but, then . . .

I went for my pre-op on what was supposed to be the day before my surgery (it ended up being postponed a week because I had the freakin' flu), and at LEAST 4 different medical professionals (drs and nurses) came into the pre-op area and said, "Oh, you're the woman with that AVM?" or "I saw the pictures of that AVM . . . amazing . . . mind if I listen?" (You could hear it with a stethoscope on my side, and they were all in awe of that . . . imagine how much more amazed they were when I showed them that you could actually feel it just by touching my side . . . I'd been feeling it for a long time and just thought it was a very-strong pulse.) Or, my favorite, from my anasthesiologist (who is also a good friend), "Wow! Do you exercise at all? You do? That is unbelievable. I can't believe you're alive."

So, now that I was turning into a medical freak-show - which is great if you want fast and friendly service from a medical office staff, but not so great if you want someone to allay your fears about your condition - I was starting to get a little concerned. In fact, by the time I was on my way home I was coming unglued. Fear and panic were apparently trying to make up for lost time, and I became almost fully convinced that I was going to die on the operating table exactly like my grandmother had. Yep, that was it. Everything else was so uncannily similar to her that this made pefect sense, and I morphed into panic personified, crying and hyperventilating like there was, pun intended, no tomorrow.

Here's where my favorite phrase comes in, "But, God . . ." How many times is that found in the Bible? I don't know, but it's in there a lot. Things are looking mighty hopeless . . . but, God . . . those must be two of the most beautiful words in the English language. As I was driving home from the hospital I was listening to a song that I had not heard in, literally, years. Thanks to my recent aquisition of an ipod, I had been traveling down memory lane and dowloading songs I hadn't heard in ages. One of these was by an old Christian folk singer named Don Francisco. Most anyone under 35 or 40 has probably never heard of him, but the majority of his songs were simply Bible stories told in a beautifully poetic way and set to folk music.

The song I was listening to (unintentionally; it was on shuffle) during my drive home that day was called "Voyage to Gennesaret" and was the story of Jesus walking on the water as the disciples' boat was caught in a storm. Here are a few of the lyrics (the rest are in the link):

A man was walking on the water, and we trembled, cried and prayedTill He stopped and turned and spoke to us, "It is I, don't be afraid.

At that moment, I had the clearest sense of God's presence and voice as I have ever had in my life. I saw Jesus - the unseen presence through every twist and turn of my life's journey - looking at me with love and saying, "It is I. Don't be afraid. Everything you're going through, have gone through, and will go through. Every road your life takes you on. Every storm you weather. Every joy, every sorrow, every pain, every unknown. It is always I. Never be afraid." I'm sure many of us have experienced what the Bible refers to as "peace that passes understanding," and this was truly one of those times. Only God could take me from abject fear to peaceful calm in a heartbeat.

And more aware of my heartbeats, I had never been. After two years of trying not to worry, every palpitation (and they were many) felt like it could be the end of me. The feeling of peace God gave me that day would not last; it would come and go. But, the vision and the message remained. I would lie in bed at night with my hand on my side feeling the blood pouring through the AVM and imagine that it was suddenly harder, faster, stronger, fainter . . . I conjured up images of my heart stopping or my insides hemmoraging that would make a CSI writer proud. But, always, I remembered God's voice: It is I. Don't be afraid.

So, thank you, Don Francisco. Thank you, Dr. B. Oh, how did things turn out? The surgery was not fun, but it was successful. After making a 10 1/2 inch incision and retracting my ribs out of the way, Dr. B located the leak with an ultrasound and was able to bypass and patch it without having to remove my kidney. I'm told that when they opened me up, my heart was pumping almost fourteen liters of blood per minute, and by the time they closed me, it was pumping six. (Five is normal.) Recovery was not easy . . . 5 days in ICU, 2 days in a regular room, 4 weeks without my kids, 6 weeks sleeping (or, more accurately, not sleeping) on the couch, and going on 6 months now with ribs that protrude in places they previously didn't and lingering pain when I do certain things like close the door on the back of the van or lift a heavy casserole dish out of the oven. But, you know what? I'm alive. God is still there, the unseen presence comforting and holding me steady through every storm He allows to come my way. And, like Peter, I sometimes keep my eyes on Him and experience a peace that is as miraculous as walking on water, but I often take them off and panic anew. For those times, here are a few more of the lyrics from the song, which is really from the Word of God:

I climbed across the gunwhale looking straight into His eyesBut long before I reached His side, the wind began to riseI forgot Him in an instant and I sank just like a stone.I cried out, "Jesus save me!" and His hand was on my own.

Friday, September 19, 2008

1. Life and health. My uncle found out today that advanced cancer is riddled throughout his entire abdomen. You can be sure I hugged my kids extra hard tonight as I reminded myself that every day with them is a gift.

2. A dancing daughter, beautiful girls, and fancy curls. My sister-in-law's sister (got that?) got married last weekend, and the little girls had such a blast dancing at the reception. Lauren also go to hold one of the bridesmaid's bouquets for awhile, which she thought was fabulous.

Lauren and some of my beautiful nieces:

Blythe:

The curls on the flower girls (two are my nieces):

Lauren with the bouquet:

And, now the dancing . . .

With her Pops:

With her cousin Blythe:

With her uncle Dan:

With a group of girls:

With her uncle Ben:

With a random little girl she didn't know:

3. Fall. It is without question my favorite season. It is beginning to feel less and less like we live on the surface of the sun, a few leaves are starting to change, and the grocery store is full of pumpkins and all manner of other gourds. I let the kids each pick one to paint. Lauren thought her arms made a better palette.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

While driving home from small group last night, Joshua asked me how I knew the road we were on would take us to our house. Before I could answer, Ethan piped up and said, "Because mommy knows more than anybody." Just as I was beginning to bask in the glow of such adulation, he added, "Except other grown-ups and God."

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

This is how Ethan refers to "tomorrow." For example, he and Lauren were just flipping a coin, and I asked him what they were deciding. He said, "We're choosing who gets to use the computer first." I reminded him that he and Joshua are on computer restriction today, and he said, "I know. I mean who gets to go first on the day we're sleeping for." :)

Monday, September 15, 2008

Joshua and I have been reading the Narnia books for awhile now, and we're currently on Prince Caspian. (It's slow-going finding time to read only to him since the books don't quite hold the attention of the younger two yet.)

Tonight, we read one of my favorite passages where Lucy speaks to Aslan for the first time since the children's last trip to Narnia. This is the text:

"Alsan," said Lucy, "you're bigger.""That is because you are older, little one," answered he."Not because you are?""I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger."

Isn't this so true in life? God does not get bigger or stronger or more capable, but the longer I know Him, the surer my faith becomes, the more He seems bigger than I ever dreamed. When He had saved me once, He seemed big. When He had brought me out of despair twice, He seemed bigger. When He had made a way where there seemed to be no way on too many occasions to count, He seemed bigger still.

Someone in our Sunday school class this week compared understanding God to looking at the Grand Canyon through a tiny peep-hole in a fence. I think that's exactly what C.S. Lewis was talking about . . . and the hole through which we see Him gets bigger over time so that we are able to see just a little more of Him. Sometimes the widening of our scope comes through joy; probably more often it comes through pain, but ultimately, triumph.

Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is. I John 3:2

My apologies to anyone who has been checking my blog today (and I'm sure all 2 of you check it hourly, right?) and noticed the, um, constantly-changing background. I decided to spiff up my blog a little and thought I'd get into the spirit of the season and use the orange and yellow for Fall . . . but, seriously, who'm I kidding? The polka dots and ribbons, cute as they were, are just not me. It wa starting to annoy ME to open my own blog, so it had to go. Now, only 374 backgrounds previews later, I think I'll keep this one. At least for another few minutes.

Inspired by Cameron's (who was born the same month as Lauren) ability to give up his pacifier, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and get the depacification over with in this house as well. I told Lauren last night that it was her last night with her paci because she was getting too big.

So, about an hour before bedtime tonight, I pulled her aside and showed her that her pacis were broken. (I had cut the tips off of them.) I told her she was almost three and that was too big for a paci and that they were broken now anyway, so tonight would be her first big-girl night with no paci. Being sharp as a tack like her mother, she asked, "Mommy, did you cut them?" Yes, I admitted, because you're too big for them now, remember?

Here's the conversation between Lauren and me, with Josh piping up ever so helpfully:

Me: If you sleep all night in your bed with no paci, would you like to go to the store tomorrow and pick out a big girl reward?Lauren: Yes!Me: What would you like to get?Josh: Lauren, how 'bout a big treat? (Our word for sweets)Me: No, she needs to pick something she can keep. What do you think you would like? Maybe a Barbie? (She's been wanting one like her cousins have)Lauren: Ummmm . . .Josh: Would you like to buy Josh something?Lauren: Ummm . . .Josh: Lauren, do you want to buy Josh an axe? (Remember the party city axe?)Me: Josh, hush and let her pick something.Lauren: A doggie!Me: Oh, good idea, a stuffed doggie. I have an idea, would you like to get a webkinz doggie?Lauren: Yeah!Josh: Lauren, tell her you want a real doggie.Me: Joshua, be quiet. Lauren, would you like to pick out a webkinz doggie and mommy will put it on the computer like Josh's and Ethan's? If you sleep without a paci, you must be big enough for me to show you how to use the computer and visit your webkinz doggie. Would you like that?Lauren: YES!!!

So, I put her to bed about 15 minutes ago with all of her stuffed animals and no paci. Leave it to Lauren to break the mold and be totally unlike her brothers who cried and wailed and properly lamented the loss of a life-long soothing device. Lauren has not shed one tear and has been in her for the past 15 minutes singing. Yes, singing. After I tucked the boys in, I peeked in her room and told her it was time to be quiet and go to sleep, but when she continued singing, I thought, "Heck, the boys were screaming when I took their pacis away. If singing comforts her, then by all means, sing away, little one." At the moment, I'm hearing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." (Buy me some peanuts and cwackow jacks . . .) A daughter after my own heart.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

It was a concept that just made sense to me: never tell my children a lie. Period. I had no idea that once I had children, this would be tested time and again, not only by my children, but by well-intentioned adults and fellow parents. You know the "little lies" that are not a big deal: the candy's all gone, I don't know where your kazoo is, Santa, the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy. The latter were big deals in my husband's house growing up; no length was too far to go to squeeze out that one extra year of magical belief. Fake tracks in the snow (from the Easter bunny . . . who did you think I meant? Santa? Remember this is the frozen tundra I'm talking about, where there is still snow at EASTER!), the sounds of bells on Christmas Eve . . . you get the idea. (My in-laws are wonderful Christian people, by the way, who I hope will inspire such enthusiasm for the magic of childhood in my own kids . . . as long as they don't break my honesty rule!)

For me, personally, I couldn't get past the thought that one day my child might think, "Hey, you told me Santa was real and that turned out to be just a fairy tale . . . why should I not question this whole God thing, too?" Now, I realize that good and godly parents disagree on this topic; millions of Christian children undoubtedly grow up being led to believe in Santa without eventually questioning the existence of God. I made the decision that, for me, it was not worth the risk. I purposed in my heart when my first child was born that, to the best of my ability, I would NEVER tell that child something I knew to be false. (Allowing, of course, for age-appropriate explanations that did not contain falsehoods. Also, we do not "ban" Santa or any of the above-mentioned characters; we just make sure our kids know that it's all make-believe.)

Yesterday Joshua discovered that you can print step-by-step instructions on how to draw various Star Wars characters on the SW web site. (I won't link it because it's not entirely kid-friendly. My boys do not use that site unsupervised.) So, he was at the kitchen table working studiously on a drawing when he had to take a potty break. Apparently, he didn't dry his hands well enough after washing because when he got back to the table, he made a few wet spots on his paper. If you've read my blog for any length of time (yes, I realize one post is usually quite a length of time around here), you know that Josh is a pretty intense child. He was upset that his construction paper was wet as he was almost finished with his drawing. I told him that it would dry and not to worry about it. "But, it has two big dark spots on it," he lamented. "I know, but when it dries, you won't be able to see them anymore." He paused for a minute and then said, "You're just trying to make me feel better." "I am trying to make you feel better," I said, "but would I tell you something that isn't true just to make you feel better?" No, he agreed, I would not.

I love that he knows that and that he never truly questions it. I grew up knowing that if my parents said something was so, I could take it to the bank. It's important to me that my kids feel the same way.

The feeling you get when you skip your sons' second soccer game because you don't want to get all hot and sweaty right before you have to leave for a wedding . . . and then you find out your firstborn scored twelve goals.

So, I was a wee bit apprehensive about moving to PA after graduation. You know, in the sense that the Sahara desert is a wee bit warm. As I said, the mere thought or mention of it would reduce me to tears, and since it was our final year of law school, there was of course, a LOT of talk about it. We had to apply to take the bar exam in whatever state we would be moving to, so I spent our last semester getting together the materials needed to apply to the PA state bar (which consists of your birth certificate, your driving record, your criminal record, your blood samples, your firstborn, etc.). I had talked David into agreeing to take the GA bar, too, but we could not take them at the same time because the days overlapped. (Most bar exams are 2-day affairs, given at approximately the same time.) The exams are offered only twice a year - in July and February - so we agreed we would take the PA bar in July and the GA bar in Feb.

Here's where things got a little better (ie, I got my way): because studying for the bar exam is theoretically full-time work and we had to move out of our university apartment when we graduated in May, we had no place to live. So, my parents agreed that we could live with them for the summer while we studied for the bar exam. We flew to PA in July to take the exam . . . but exam results are not issued until October. So, now what do to? Getting a job as a lawyer is tough when you don't have a law license yet, so that left us from late July to late October with little employment opportunities. We weren't in PA to look for jobs there, and we hadn't even taken the GA bar exam yet, so looking for legal jobs here was pretty impossible, too. By August we realized we needed to do something to put bread on the table and move out of my parents' house. Seeing as how David had gotten an oh-so-marketable political science degree, the job-hunting was pretty much left to me since I had a teaching degree and certificate and a yaer of teaching experience pre-law school to boot. So, I got a job teaching 7th grade grammar. (Grammar I love; 7th graders, not so much. No offense, Mal and Grant!)

Boy this story is getting long, huh? So, the teaching job committed us to GA for the year. By then end of that year, we had obtained law licenses in both PA and GA, David had gotten a job with a firm here, and I was pregnant! During this time, David was still knocking on doors (figuratively) in PA from time to time, but nothing was opening. So, he ended up in the DA's office, I had a baby and then went to work part-time for a law firm. Over the next three years, we would have three children, I would become a stay-at-home mom, and David would leave the DA's office to work for the firm he is still with today. (Our time there, sadly, overlapped by only a couple of months before I left to stay at home.)

During all this time, up until Fall of 2006, I would hear him on the phone with his dad in the other room talking about plans for living and working in PA, and I would fall apart all over again. (David's dad graduated from law school with us. He and David went to law school together with the intent to open their own firm afterward; call me the monkey-wrench.) I spent the first six years of our marriage living, quite literally, in abject fear of moving to PA. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to live near my family, have my mom to help with my kids, be here to watch my nieces and nephew grow up, have all the comforts and familiarites of my hometown at my fingertips, and last but not least, live within 1/2 hr of actual stores and restaurants! Any talk of PA left me shaken, afraid, and quite honestly bitter and angry. It made much more sense to me that we stay here since I have siblings and David does not. His parents needed to just move to GA to be close to their grandchildren since ours are the only ones they have. Makes sense, doesn't it? Meanwhile, David and his parents kept playing the "God card" - they felt like God wanted them to live there and that we were "supposed to" move there at some point. Thanks a lot - how can you argue with the God card, right?

So, after six years of marriage here I was resenting David for wanting to put me through the pain of leaving my family, resenting his parents for expecting us to do that, and pretty much creating a mile-wide chasm between myself and my husband. It would have made sense during this time for me to have prayed for God to change my heart about the whole thing . . . to help me desire the things my husband desired, to give me peace about following my husband and supporting him in his goals and plans. Plans, he wouldn't hesitate to remind me, that he fully disclosed when he took me to that mountain and proposed all those years before. He had wanted to make sure I would be able to live in that tiny frozen speck in the mountains, and I had said I could. How frustrating this must have been for him, I cannot imagine.

Despite my fear and resentment, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I suggested in the Fall of 06 that we take a family trip to David's hometown. We had not been there since we got engaged, and none of his family had seen any of our children. (Except his parents, but they have been living in Harrisburg - about 4 hrs from the hometown - since after law school, so that was where we always visited.) We drove to Harrisburg first and spent a couple of days at his parents' house. Then we headed up into the mountains.

I was prepared for battle. I fully expected David to hail the virtues of the town the entire time we were there and to try to convince me that it was where we should live. I was ready with my defense. My guard was up, and I would not let him penetrate it. Bring it on, honey, I know this is what you're going to do.

Nope. Silence. We were there for three days, and in a display of probably the wisest self-restraint anyone has ever shown, David said not one word about moving there. Not one word. I was stunned.

But, Someone else spoke to me instead. David's arguments I could resist. His mom and dad's arguments I could thwart. But, there is One whose words cannot be resisted no matter how hard we try. Over the course of the three days we were there, God and God alone, totally and miraculously changed my heart. I saw the town and his family with new eyes. I would be okay. God would go with me, and I would be fine. He gave me a peace that is truly beyond understanding.

God was steadily working in my heart the entire time we were there, but I didn't say anything to David until our final day. On the morning we were packing to leave, we were standing outside (in the bitter October cold and snow!), and I said to him, "If you really feel like this is where we need to be, I'm okay with that." You could have knocked him over with a feather! What??!! After six years of crying and hyperventilating when he even mentioned PA, suddenly I was fine with it? We were both utterly amazed. I knew that this peace had come from God and that He had given it to me mercifully. I had not asked for it. I had only ever prayed that God would change David's heart and that we would not have to go. Never had I asked for my heart to be changed. But, doesn't God always give us what we need even if we're too foolish to ask for it or to recognize it?

That was two years ago next month. Yet, here we are in GA. Over the course of the past year I would wonder why God didn't open doors for us to move right after He gave me peace about it, but we would discover the answer to that. If we had moved to his tiny hometown prior to this year, I probably would have died because my life-threatening health condition would almost certainly not have been found in time. Turns out God had us here for a reason, and now that I've had surgery and my health is good, doors are opening and signs are appearing at every turn that let us know the time to go is soon. I could not ask for a sweeter blessing from God than this peace and like-mindedness with my husband. How terrible putting up the for-sale sign would have been if I were still in the state I was in two years ago. How miserable it is to live life full of fear and resentment, and how great and gracious and merciful God is to give us what we need despite our protestations.

So, I was right all along that we ought to be in Georgia, wasn't I? In the end, though, does that really make me right? No. I read a verse during that final semester of law school which convicted me: I Peter 3:5-6, which says, "For in this way in former times the holy women also, who hoped in God, used to adorn themselves, being submissive to their own husbands; just as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord, and you have become her children if you do what is right without being frightened by any fear." (emphasis mine) That pierced my heart, and I knew then that the right thing to do was to support my husband and to ask God to help us want the same things and to give me courage and peace. But, I didn't. I stubbornly resisted. God did not need me to be bitter and resentful for us to live where He wanted us. He did not need me to stubbornly refuse to submit to my husband and to do everything I could to manipulate circumstances to keep us here. He could have kept us in Georgia without any help from me. I was wrong even if the place was right. Thank God for his mercies that are new every morning.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

The boys had their first soccer game on Saturday. They both did great; Ethan even scored the team's first goal. Who knows what the actual final score was (I'm pretty sure we lost), but they both had a lot of fun. Soccer games at this age are hilarious. There was one boy who ran off the field crying to his mom at least 5-6 times during the game, and there was often confusion about who was supposed to be on/off the field.

Monday, September 8, 2008

I'm sure by now I've mentioned that Josh is my dramatic child. He's always had a way with words and a penchant for seeing the negative more easily than the positive. For example, as we were getting ready for church on Sunday he told me he doesn't like his head because it's not round; it's too pointy. What? It's not pointy at all. Well, he doesn't like that his chin prevents his face from being a perfect circle. Apparently, he wants to look like Mickey Mouse. If he were a girl, I'm convinced he'd be in the "depths of despair," right along with Anne of Green Gables.

Friday was a particularly woeful day. First, I wouldn't let him buy a skull-and-crossbones adorned SICKLE he saw in Party City. (I know, right? What kind of mother am I?) Can I just say how much I hate that his birthday is in October, so every year when we go to get birthday supplies we are surrounded by blood and vampires and all manner of goul and gore? Of course, Josh loves it. He says it's his favorite store (one he goes to 2-3 times a year, mind you) and that the aisle with "all the axes" is his "favorite aisle!" So, when mom said no to this particular axe (I decided not to teach him about sickles just yet. I'll save that for after machetes and kidnapping.), his world came crashing down. "What if we take off the skull? But I have swords and light sabers! Why can't I have an axe? When I'm an adult, I'm going to buy it . . ." After a discussion about how he needs to stop trying to have the last word and drop this subject before he experienced some unpleasant repercussions, he snuck in one last question. "What about when I'm M & G's age?" (my 14 and 12 y/o niece and nephew) "Not another word, Joshua." Pause. "I thought for that you'd at least say maybe."

By this point in our fun-filled afternoon (seriously, it really was . . . we were at Party City in the first place to determine what supplies we need for his Star Wars birthday party, aka Jedi Training, and were then headed to my mom's house to swim. A fact he knew nothing about when he'd left for school that morning, so this was a total fun Friday afternoon suprise, and David even took off early from work to come swim with us. Sounds like a great afternoon, no?

As they say, all good things must come to an end, so after FOUR hours of swimming and fun at my mom's, I said it was time to wrap things up and head home since the boys had their first soccer game at 9:00 the next morning. Well, you know how when it's time to leave kids have inevitably "JUST STARTED" doing the one thing they had really wanted to do the whole time? Nothing they had done the previous four hours was any fun at all . . . THIS was what they really wanted to be doing. Apparently, the swimming and bike riding he'd been doing for four hours were all just time-killers while he waited for the opportunity to go inside and play coyotes. What this involves, I do not know, but alas, it was time. to. leave.

And leave we did. After a few miles of enduring the sobs and laments coming from my almost 6 year-old Eeyore in the backseat, I let him know that it needed to stop and fast. If this is how you act when you have to leave a fun place, you will not go the next time, I said. He mustered all of his resolve and got his sobbing under control as we were pulling into our driveway, and this conversation ensued:

Me: Ethan, carry this bag inside. Josh, carry these vitamins inside. (We had stopped by the Vitamin Shop.)Joshua: Mommy, I wish I could go ahead and take my vitamins becuase I feel like I don't have any strength left. [I turn my head so he doesn't see that I'm about to burst into laughter.] I don't have any strength at all.Me: Then, by all means take 2 vitamins.

When I relayed this story to a friend, he said, "Apparently, he doesn't know about Scotch yet, huh?"

Saturday, September 6, 2008

(I had to edit this because I published it the first time as "The Lost Seat" . . . which is an entirely different story about an embarrassing movie theater incident that I'll save for another day. Don't worry; I have plenty. Of embarrassing stories, that is, not days. Though I certainly hope to have plenty of those, too.

Aren't you glad I wasted so much of your precious reading time with that irrelevant information at the beginning of this entry? I know you're probably all like, "She should have just left it as 'The Lost Seat' and saved me this ridiculously long introduction." I thought that, too. And, just so you know, I've never used the phrase "all like" instead of "said" or "thinking" before. First time for everything.)

Here is the last set of pictures from last weekend's trip to Tennessee. While driving to Knoxville, my mom and I were reminscing about when my brothers and I were kids and we used to travel up and down I-75 and I-65 all the time due to my dad's business. He was the type to take the whole family along and make a vacation of things instead of just going away on a business trip. One of the many things I love about my dad. So, we were remembering all these tourist places we went to back then and I said, "Do you remember The Lost Sea? Where was that?" My mom, with her acute memory skills, said, "I think it was on the way to Lexington [KY]." Lo and behold (or "yo and behold" as a very dear friend of mine would say :)), not 10 minutes later we passed a sign saying "Lost Sea Next Exit." Turns out it's in Sweetwater, TN about an hour outside of Knoxville. (Which, if you're wondering, is nowhere near Lexington, KY) So, on the way home we decided to stop and do the tourist thing.

Of course, since there were 13 of us on the trip and 2 vehicles we had spent a lot of time trying to buckle 3 kids into carseats/boosters across the back of my van. Not an easy task. I jokingly told my brother (whose family had decided not to stop at The Lost Sea because they're really not very much fun - total sticks-in-the-mud) that he could make things easier for us by just taking Lauren home with them. Later this somehow got misconstrued as an offer to trade Lauren (who is 2 and not the world's quietest or most helpful passenger) for my niece Mallory (who is 13 and totally knows how to shut up when I'm trying to listen to talk-radio). I told Ben that I had not suggested this at all . . . but, if that's what he REALLY wanted to do, how could I say no? And so it was that the Lost Sea Adventure travelers were me, David, my mom, Josh, Ethan, my niece Lesey, and my niece Mallory. (I have to note here that the great thing about having kids several years after Ben's family had their last child is that he is far enough removed from that whole stage that he totally enjoys having Lauren around. Lest you think this was really burdensome for him and Renae - Ben adores Lauren. I have great brothers.)

By this point, if you're still reading at all, you're probably thinking (or all like), "What the heck is the Lost Sea?" (Unless, of course, you actually clicked on the link earlier, but who really does that? Not me.) So, let me tell you. The Lost Sea is a giant cave inside the side of a mountain in TN. This HUGE cave contains the country's largest underground lake, which is pretty cool. (The tour gude said it "used to be the world's largest" until they recently discovered a bigger one in Malaysia or Africa or somewhere. I resisted the urge to tell him that, no, even then it wasn't the world's largest; everyone just thought it was. That's what the whole "discovery" thing is all about, dude. Well, actually, it was a girl, but whatever, dude.)

Without further adude (sorry . . . I'm so tired, and I get a little punny when I'm tired), here are some pics:

This one is in the giant yellow tube that is the only one of its kind east of the Missippi. (At least we think it is, but maybe they'll discover another one in the Smokies someday.) Note the screw-shaped rock formations along the sides. Okay, it's actually the man-made entrance into the cave because the natural entrance was becoming too dangerous (translation probably: they got sued) for tourists. I include this picture because it's the only one that shows how my mom, my niece, and I all unknowingly wore almost identical outfits that day. Don't you think that's blog-worthy?

David and Josh just inside the cave (sorry it did not occur to me until about 200 miles farther down I-75 that I should have increased my ISO for taking pictures inside a freakin' cave):

Ethan:

The kids near a stalagtite called "Black Cat:"

Me and the boys, included only because I love how much Ethan was digging getting his picture taken:

A large "meeting room" inside the cave where Indians used to live and hold, well, meetings:

The boats on the lake (I tried to adjust the lighting a bit on photoshop so you could tell that it's actually water, but it didn't work very well):

On the boat ride (during which you could reach over the side of the boat and touch the water and see tons of trout) (Ethan's wearing a girly white sweater because it was all my mom had with her for Lesey, and we all know I'm not a prepared enough mom to have thought to carry along a jacket when going to a cave that's a steady 58 degrees year-round):

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Hard to believe, I know, but apparently it's true. I'm driving home today with four kids in the van (my 3 plus my niece) overwhelmed with frustratation at how unkind my kids can sometimes be to one another. One of my kids had gotten a new toy yesterday, and of course another one wants to play with it. Cue the announcers; the fight is on. Mind you, we're talking about a squishy green rubber caterpillar that probably came from the dollar store. But, never mind, my kids are ready to fight to the death over it.

Of course, I tell the owner that he should share and that if the shoe were on the other foot, he would want his brother to share. And, I remind the person who does not own this holy grail of toys that his brother just got it so it's more special than his other toys. I've recently begun using a jar of hershey's kisses as a reward system for random acts of kindness that my kids show to one another - an idea I got from this friend. For a week or so, I gave away not one single hershey's kiss. Zero. Nada. I pointed out to the kids that I had this whole jar-full of chocolates and not one child who could find one kind thing to do for another. Finally, searching desperately for a way to jumpstart this system, I rewarded them with one when I noticed them nicely sharing their transformers. That seemed to do the trick for awhile, and I noticed a significant improvement in kindness. It was short-lived.

Now, I'm driving home listening to dialogue I had heretofore thought reserved for conversation between sunnis and shi'ites. And, do you know what I do? I give up. As I'm racking my brain for where I took a wrong turn on this winding parenting road, it dawns on me . . . this is not a behavior problem; this is a heart problem. I cannot make my kids be nice. I can make them ACT nice. I can make them share. I cannot make them be nice. I cannot make them love each other. I cannot make them care for another above themselves. The problem is not in their behavior but in their hearts. (If I'm really being honest, I don't do such a stellar job of loving and putting others first myself, do I?) How thankful I am to know the One who can. My kids' behaviors are my domain, but their hearts are His. Instead of wringing my hands and _____ (insert ineffective parental yelling or lecture of choice), I need to remember first to pray for God to soften my childrens' hearts and to fill them with His love for their fellow man. And, since He IS omnipotent, I can trust that this task which seems (and is) insurmountable to me will not be beyond His ability.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Unfortunately, my big brother - who I in so many ways admire and desire to emulate - is, I must confess, a GA Tech alum. Sigh. I know. When he invited the rest of the family to accompany him and his wife and kids to a game last week, it was with mixed emotions that I agreed to go. I knew the kids would love going to the game with their cousins, and I knew that we'd have a great time together as a family. But, really?? GA Tech? Alright. We went, and we did indeed have a great time. Here are some of the pictures, but keep in mind there is an invisible War Eagle super-imposed over each one. :)

Before the game, we enjoyed a picnic on a big grassy knoll where the kids had a blast playing football and goofing around.

Football playing:

My football player nephew:

Some of the girl cousins:

Me, David, and the kids:

After trying forever to get a good picture of my kids, Josh and Ethan began hamming it up when my 8 year-old niece got out her camera. Here's how they posed FOR HER with no instruction!

"I long to accomplish a great and noble task, but it is my chief duty to accomplish humble tasks as though they were great and noble."-Helen Keller

About Beck

I'm a lawyer who recently returned to work (part-time) after staying at home with my kids for the past five and a half years. I am married to an awesome, hardworking man who also happens to be a lawyer. Fortunately, we rarely argue. However, we also have three little litigators in training, and they do argue on a regular basis.

Our oldest is Joshua. He is seven, is an excellent artist and athlete, and wants to be a paleontologist and a rock star when he grows up. Also, he wants to discover a treasure like the guy in National Treasure. Don't we all? Next is Ethan who's five. He is a perfectionist who loves puzzles, games, playing soccer, and giving his mom hugs. He says he wants to be a baseball player when he grows up, though he has never actually played baseball as of yet. Last we have Lauren who is four. She loves to talk and sing and talk and play with her dolls and talk. She plans to be a ballerina or a driver when she grows up, which she says will be when she's 100. For the record, she has never driven.